


Little Liar

by onceuponaplot



Series: Castiel Rising [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Demon Castiel, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponaplot/pseuds/onceuponaplot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel's story begins in the dark, with a memory of bright eyes and hair like hay dancing in his mind.</p>
<p>Some backstory to accompany <i>Castiel Rising</i> and tie up a few loose ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Liar

**Author's Note:**

> As a short thanks to everyone who read _Castiel Rising_ , I wanted to get this out as quickly as possible. If I've accidentally overlooked any glaring errors, that's the reason. I got the idea for this around Ch 9 and I've been working on it in bits and pieces ever since. As of today I have no plans for a sequel, but I've left that option open should inspiration strike again. Thanks for taking the time to read; I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> *Contains some spoilers for Castiel Rising*

He remembers a face, though he’s fairly certain it’s not his own. He feels too strongly for it, holds it close and protects it from _them_ with every ounce of his being. His own is lost to him, if he ever knew it at all. He can recall eyes of a light color, hair that was long, but he can’t say if it was brown or black or even red. He remembers the tie he used to hold it out of his eyes – a thin scrap of black fabric. There was some reason he used it, but he can no longer recall what it might have been.

But the face. He remembers the face, knows it was precious to him even if he cannot place a name to it.

It’s a girl’s face, young though he couldn’t give you any age more exact than that. Brown eyes. Stringy, dirty blonde hair; he was always pulling it back from her face, he thinks, and tying it back, though by supper it was unavoidably a mess again.

_They won’t take you,_ he thinks. _I will never let them take you._

He wonders who ‘they’ were. Not the same _them_ as now. _They_ are so very, very different from them. _They_ aren’t some faceless other that he fears but a tangible threat. _They_ come and he knows and he is not merely fearful, no, he is petrified without a single piece of him exempt from the terror.

He hears a noise and he tenses, shoves the precious face into a tiny space where he will never let _them_ find it.

_I will protect you from_ them _too_ , he thinks as a goodbye. _They_ will never get her. Not while he is alive.

The door opens and a figure steps in. Its eyes glow sickly red; its mouth is filled with teeth like needles stretched into a sickening parody of a grin.

His throat is already raw when he starts screaming, but he can no longer remember a time that it was not. He wishes he were dead.

_They_ do not stop.

-

He whimpers when the door opens and feet come into view. He thinks of something like a face – something blue? – but cannot bring himself to care about anything more. The feet are different from the ones he has grown accustomed to. Normally _they_ have hooves and talons and claws, fearful things that make him shake where he is chained to the wall. This one has smooth, shiny black feet. They click as it steps across the floor.

_Shoes_ , he thinks and wonders what it means.

“Well look at you,” this one says. It is the first time that he has ever heard something other than his own pained noises and it stuns him into dumb silence. It looks at him and its face isn’t as terrifying as the others’. It looks smooth and still, doesn’t shift like something is living beneath its skin and pushing to get out. Its teeth look blunt, from what he can see when it speaks.

Its eyes are like dark, black pits and he shrinks away from the wrongness of it as much as he is able. It blinks and its eyes still are still inhuman but they are red like fire and blood and _them_.

“I think you’ve had quite enough,” it says. Its hand moves and he whines, tries to squirm away. He does not think he can survive any more, does not think it is possible for him to endure any more. It stops, bright eyes watching him and he shuts his eyes, looks away.

_You cannot hurt me if you cannot see me cannot see me if I can’t see you go away leave me alone did nothing wrong just wanted to protect was the only way leave me alone save me please somebody I don’t deserve this._

He yelps at the first touch to his blistered, broken, aching skin, waits for the flare of pain and the warmth of spilled blood.

He hurts – how can he not? – but not much more than before. The pressure on his wounds is aggravating to a much lesser extent than what _they_ do. He opens his eyes, peeks out from the darkness behind his eyelids.

It watches him, face twisted, and for the first time he sees something that may not be a complete mockery of a smile. “Please. I’m hardly one of those heathens,” it sighs. Something clicks and his arm falls, falls, falls until it smacks him in the side. He jumps at the sudden pain in his shoulder. He never knew his arms could do anything but hold him to the wall. _Their_ hands can do so much, but never his.

It reaches up and his other shoulder hurts just as much when it falls.

His knees wobble and he sinks to the ground.

“You’re going to be mine,” it says when he looks up. “Anyone asks, you tell them you’re Crowley’s. Is that clear?”

He stares for several minutes before he jerks his head up and down in a nod.

“Good. And you are?”

He opens his mouth, but he does not know the words to use and he does not know his name. He feels something wet on his face and it frowns.

“Oh don’t do that. No crying if you’re one of mine, not now. We’ll figure out what to call you soon enough. Up, now, there’s a boy.”

He stumbles and limps his way out of the room and down the hall. His feet feel like they have been smashed with rocks by the time Crowley stops them at a door, opens it for them to walk through.

For the first time that he can remember, he hurts because of something he did and not because of someone else.

-

“Then you were certainly never going to get anywhere with it, you bloody idiot! You need to be innovative with this sort of thing – even if it had no juice it obviously remembers enough of what it was _somewhere_ in its thick head to resist normal methods, it’s not going to break that way! And why wasn’t I told the second it showed up? It’s because of me it’s here at all!” Crowley shouts. Even after only a matter of days, he can tell that it is a conversation he was never meant to hear. He shuffles away, back to the room he has been placed in for rest, and he pretends like he never heard a thing.

He pretends so well that he forgets, because that is the best way to keep _them_ happy. He does not know yet if Crowley is like _them_ , but he will take no chances and forgetting is a special talent of his. He forgets so well that he never even wonders if he has forgotten. He will listen to every command it gives him, will obey every order as well as he is possibly able.

An hour later, Crowley opens his door and smiles in at him. “I told you we’d think of something, and I know just what,” it says as it closes the door and sits in a nearby chair. “Castiel. How does that sound?”

_It sounds familiar_ , he thinks, _familiar but also not_. But he does not say that.

Crowley takes his silence for acquiescence. “Good. Now, Castiel, we have much to do today. Up, up.” It ushers him out of the room to another he has not been to before. It is filled with the coverings- the clothing that Crowley normally wears. Castiel feels a little sick, thinking of being so restricted and hindered.

The garments do not look comfortable, look pleasant in only a theoretical way. He would much rather keep the scraps he wears now; at least they will not be ruined if Crowley decides he does not want to bother with him any longer.

But Crowley insists and as Castiel is dressed, Crowley’s hands brush away all of his bruises and scrapes and blisters until his skin is unblemished. It is a new feeling for Castiel, and he marvels at it. He whispers his first words as he looks into a mirror and sees himself, a quiet, “Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley smirks, pats his shoulder heavily. “No need to be so formal. I’d prefer if you thought of us as family, Castiel. I’m practically your father, after all.”

Something tugs at the back of Castiel’s mind, some niggling feeling, but he discards it. He is too paranoid, Crowley has told him. Fears too much. He wants to say that he has reason, that he has been strung up and held captive for so long that he can’t trust anything he is told, that he believes even his own mind might lie to him. But he could trust Crowley. Crowley has not lied to him yet, has not done anything to hurt him. Crowley tells him the truth.

The grey that formed in his eyes when he was freed flares darker, nearly black, and he says, “Yes, Father.”

-

He is of a new breed. At least, that’s what he likes to think. Castiel has seen what he’s supposed to be compared to, has watched them work as they hack into souls with as much finesse as they can muster. (It’s not much, most of the time.)

But he can take them apart so much better with nothing more than words, and isn’t that even better?

He doesn’t get many assignments and when he does he’s instructed to use only his words, to tempt and tease; he’s not sure if it’s because of Crowley’s interference or something else that he has so few playthings to work with and so few tools to sway them with, but he makes do.

In his free time he helps Crowley. He does his fair share of organizing contracts and retrievals for those wayward dealmakers who don’t come around when the payment is due. His retrievals are always fast, subtle. Missing persons and hiking mishaps. It’s good work, steady, but it can be dull.

In his free time, he trains the Hounds.

Castiel likes to think in the quiet, private place within his mind (the place even Crowley has never managed to touch, despite his efforts; the place that holds the flash of eyes in the distance and hair like hay) that the Hounds he trains are better, more vicious and ruthless. Efficient.

He is faster than any of his kin, can flash in a wisp of shadow from one end of the brimstone realm to another in less than a blink, can discard his masquerade of flesh in an instant and recall it just as quickly. Crowley will teach him to do the same on earth when they get a chance to be above at the same time. Castiel has been up once: a brief excursion to collect a particularly resilient soul that had escaped normal methods. Castiel’s Hounds tear him apart with precision and grace and then they return home.

Castiel barely has a chance to try out his human skin – a short, thin, bald thing that felt ancient as a stone – before he is returning, victorious.

He doesn’t stay to watch what happens – he’s not in charge of breaking, turning this one – and he prefers not to watch. He says it’s a waste of his time, and it is, but he never mentions the wrongness he feels when he is asked to watch. The fury. Tempting never incites the same anger within him.

It does not change the fact that he is good at what he does, even if no one acknowledges it.

_They_ stare at him sometimes with suspicion and doubt in what pass for _their_ eyes. It makes Castiel wonder and his curiosity is boundless, but he has heard the quaint new saying humans have come up with about curiosity and cats. He will not fall victim to it.

Crowley silently cheers him on with pats on the shoulder and whispered commands.

Castiel waits for the day that he will be recognized. It will come as surely as the fires will burn in the Pit long after his existence is finally brought to an end, whenever that may be.

-

The first time that Castiel doubts he is punished swiftly. Crowley sees to it himself, before any other may know of his failure, and Castiel speaks of it to nobody.

It is a simple doubt – a mere longing for something _more_ than what they have – but it causes him no end of trouble. Castiel hates what he becomes when the shackles return to his wrists, heavy cuffs that hold him captive and stop his escape. He cannot even wish himself away, is forced into a vile, human shape that cannot be freed from these bonds.

By the third day, Castiel wishes he could sob but he does not, because Crowley’s first and only rule is that he must not cry, not if he is under Crowley’s protection, his guidance.

On the fifth day he is released and Crowley stares him in the eyes for several long minutes before he adds a rule onto the list:

_Don’t cry. Never doubt Crowley._

Castiel’s silence is taken for agreement when it really should not. He does not doubt Crowley often, but he doubts him. Castiel never again lets it show, never hesitates to follow an order and never questions.

The doubts are still there, watching and waiting and growing, and Castiel makes sure that no one can ever see them.

Sometimes he thinks he could even hide them from himself, if he tried, and he starts to wonder if he has ever hidden anything else.

-

Castiel sees the way others sneer at him when they think he is not watching, sees all of their petty prejudices and manipulations, and he feels their disregard for him.

He decides early on that he will prove them all wrong someday, that he will be better and stronger and faster.

One other, who calls herself Ruby, doubts him more than most.

Castiel decides early on that her destruction will someday be at his hand.

-

The first time he considers outright disobedience, it is soon after he sees the tired, fearful soul of Dean Winchester strung up like he himself once was.

There’s something that makes him pause when he notices it; the soul, though it is battered and worn and frayed, shines brighter than anything he has seen before with these eyes.

Castiel does not know why the soul looks familiar, why he can point out each crack that is not supposed to be on something so pure. An explanation for why he can remember seeing it whole and healthy and thrumming more powerfully in Brother’s presence does not come.

He never remembered a brother before now.

He’s curious what else he’s never thought to question.

-

Lilith sneers and taunts and insults and Castiel lets her, gives only a few token protests to lure her where she needs to be. Ruby’s presence is barely noticeable when he looks for it, and it takes him several seconds longer than he expected to maneuver hell’s queen into the appropriate location.

_Little angel fallen from on high look at how low you are now look at how dark_ , he thinks as the battle draws to a close. _What made you rip out your feathers and tear out your essence to drop down and live in the mud?_

Even as they trudge out of the building his brain is working at a thousand miles a minute. _Demons lie, that’s our job,_ he tells himself. But the forgotten things in his mind nudge and push to escape, to make themselves known, and he doubts.

Castiel decides to forget Lilith’s words for a little while. He doesn’t have the luxury of distraction in the coming days and weeks, so he’ll consider them when he has time. The whole exchange leaves a sour taste in his mouth that doesn’t go away when he abandons Jimmy Novak’s body and flees.

-

“You dare to show your face to me again,” the angel spits and Castiel rolls his eyes. The angel, dressed in a plain suit with his hair combed neatly, looks so institutional and stuffy Castiel wonders if he made a mistake. _How could you ever break a rule, feather brain?_ he wonders, but does not say. “After what you did.”

“Your job, you mean?” Castiel asks, mocking, crossing his arms and letting a little of his essence fog over the eyes of his host. “A little old demon like me stopping the apocalypse while you holy bureaucrats twiddled your thumbs and didn’t do a thing to stop it. How _dare_ I!”

He reigns in his anger after a moment, cutting himself off. It won’t do to piss off his one hope of restoration. Much as he hates to admit it, he’ll need the angel’s help if he ever wants to reclaim his rightful place in the Pit’s hierarchy.

Inias only seems all the more furious for his answer. “For what you did before!” he spits, careful composure falling away. Castiel is surprised; he never knew the bastards could feel anything at all besides holier-than-thou annoyance. “The garrison was wrecked. We needed you to guide us. We needed you, and you abandoned us! And for what? Some- some _demon_?”

The words stir something inside Castiel and he doesn’t interrupt, though he wants to. Lilith’s words ring in his ears again and he feels a sharp burst of icy fear. The angel shakes his head, the emotions warring for control painting an ugly expression on his face. “And then you throw away the one gift you were given in your Fall for some pitiful human?” _Blue eyes messy hair not gonna get you gonna keep you safe only way all I have to give._ “You throw it all away and you’re dead within a blink and that’s it? Why did you do that to us? What did we do to deserve such abandonment? Why did the abominations in the Pit deserve you more than we did?”

Castiel opens his mouth to object but he’s stopped by the quiet nudge of memories from the most barricaded portion of his mind where no demon was ever allowed to sink its claws. This time, instead of shoving them back down and ignoring them, he gives them their freedom. It’s less a flood than it is a slow immersion, memories and recollections settling themselves into place in different parts of his mind. Inias’ face disappears in front of him as he remembers and he’s left almost gasping when the process is finished. Many small things that have happened over the years make much more sense now that he has a context to put them in. An overheard conversation from what must have been eons ago drifts through his mind, Crowley shouting at some unknown face in the office. Castiel clenches his jaw.

_You mean he never told you? Crowley downed an angel when he came to us; take a guess what it was called._

He keeps himself from saying a thing for a long moment until, eventually, he says, “It wasn’t that you didn’t deserve me, or that they deserved me more. It was because I decided that I deserved something. It’s not bad to want things for yourself just because a demon introduces the concept. I wanted a life so I took it.”

“But you threw it all away,” Inias persists. A tear falls from one of his eyes and Castiel’s brows furrow together.

“No,” Castiel says. “I used it to protect something I cared about. I was human. I had to improvise.”

He doesn’t apologize, not for that. Not for taking his existence, his fate into his own hands and turning it into a human life of his own; not for using the enormous gift given to him for a purpose of his choosing. _There are worse things to sell a soul for,_ he thinks, _than keeping someone precious to you safe._

“I am asking for your help,” Castiel says after several moments of tense silence. Inias is angry when he looks up at him. Inias is also sad in a way that Castiel thinks angels aren’t supposed to be. He wonders how fiercely he felt the same emotion before he tore bone and feather and grace out of his essence and plummeted to earth. “And if you give it to me, I will do what I can to help you in return, when I have taken back my place.”

“Balthazar misses you,” Inias says. “He always has. And Samandriel. And Hester-“

“I can’t change any of that now. Nothing can,” Castiel says; the names mean nothing to him now, recognition gone. Inias’ shoulders droop. “Pull yourself together, featherbrain. You’re acting like a disgrace right now. I expected better from one of Heaven’s soldiers.”

Inias tries to scowl at him but it falls flat on his face. His shoulders rise up again, though, and his spine straightens. He looks prouder now, less like a lost child, and Castiel approves. “Why should I help? What could you possibly do for us?”

Castiel smiles, tips his head in consideration. “You’d be surprised, kid.”

-

The first soul that Castiel tears into after centuries of abstinence isn’t human, isn’t even close, and he knows now that he’ll never be able to rip one of them to shreds like his brothers and sisters below can. He’s not sure it could be called a soul at all anymore.

The thing – he can’t think of it as anything else – is so far gone, he’s not sure what it started as. But it’s bad, he can tell that, and it tried to attack him first, so he feels vindicated in taking it apart. Survival of the fittest, after all.

The next time it happens, it’s less out of self-defense and more a policy of ‘ _get them before they get me_.’ It’s been so long since Castiel wasn’t on the run that he can barely even remember a time when things were peaceful.

He loses track of how many he slaughters in his mad bid for safety. His own life is all that matters now, and he protects it from those dark beasts with every ounce of supernatural strength that he has.

But all he needs now are a few more weeks and his plan will be done, his schemes masked to look like carefully followed orders.

He shoots a quick glance up to the sky when he’s done , inky blood still smeared on his arms and splattered on his face, and he grimaces. “Hurry up,” he shouts, because he can and because it makes him feel just a bit better. “Hurry up or you get nothing. Nothing at all! I am not a plaything to be trifled with!”

-

Castiel returns to the deep, dark place where he was reborn two years, three months and one week after Lilith’s death. He doesn’t sneak or slink, doesn’t shy away from attention. He commands it, draws gazes to him and stares down anyone who makes eye contact. The skin he wears is fresh, a soccer coach from New Hampshire who stands nearly six feet tall and he uses every inch of the man’s height to loom over the demons who crowd near and whisper of his defiance, his depravity for daring to step foot here again.

Castiel brushes them aside and continues anyway, all the way to the slick oak door that is burned into his memory. He can hear Crowley’s muffled shout even as he looks at it, impossible to ignore now that it is no longer hidden away in the deepest corners of his mind. He knocks once and stands back, ready.

When the door opens, Crowley’s face is the same as he remembered it. The demon doesn’t look a day older, but something about him feels tired.

_A crossroads dealer turned King of Hell. Not exactly a smooth transition,_ Castiel thinks to himself.

Crowley says nothing at first, stares at him and gives away no ground. Then, “You have a lot of nerve coming back here.”

“I was taught a long time ago that one must be daring if one hopes to get anywhere in life.”

Crowley’s lips twitch up a hair and settle again.

“You murdered Lilith before it was time-“

“Sam and Dean Winchester murdered Lilith before the seals were broken, and I assisted them as per her orders,” Castiel interrupts. He knows the shock he sees on Crowley’s face to be real; Castiel’s never dared to speak over him before.

“She told me of no such thing,” Crowley says slowly, dangerously. His eyes narrow into slits and Castiel feels a strange joy at making the man furious.

“Some information is distributed on a need to know basis. You didn’t need to know.”

“That is-“

“Just like you never told me what I was?” Castiel asks, punctuates it with a little snort of amusement. Crowley’s face goes carefully still. “We need to have a talk. I’d rather not do it with the masses loitering around like starving pests.”

Crowley watches him for another moment before he steps aside and gestures to the room inside. “I imagine we have much to discuss.”

Castiel smirks as he steps over the threshold. “You’d imagine correctly.”


End file.
